


Lost Souls

by LadyKailitha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ghosts, Halloween, John is a Medium, M/M, Mediums, Sherlock is a TV Host
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the TV host of a popular show that debunks the supernatural. John is a former soldier that comes home from Afghanistan being able to see ghosts. For Halloween, the BBC decides to do a debunking of mediums for the ghost story aspect. John is chosen as one of the three mediums that Sherlock is going to debunk. But what will Sherlock do in the face of the real thing?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bugger, I got soooo close to getting this finished by Halloween. But with me and Old Ping Hai having conflicting schedules on Mondays, it's just not meant to be. 
> 
> HOWEVER! I have the whole story written up and I just need to get part five typed up and send to her. So there is a light at the end of the tunnel. 
> 
> There are five parts. I don't think of them as chapters, mainly because this first one is so short compared to the others, but as this site doesn't do anything other than that, they'll be listed as chapters. And I will be posting a new part over the next five days. Starting with today and ending on the 3rd. 
> 
> Of course I have to thank two of my biggest cheerleaders, my beta Old Ping Hai and my husband, Sidheman. The first kept encouraging me to get it done, and the later let me pick his brain constantly when I got writers' block. Thank you both!!

"That's all from 'Unmasking the Supernatural: The Science of Demystifying the Ethereal.' I'm your host, Sherlock Holmes. Next week for BBC's Halloween Spooktacular, we'll be debunking mediums, or those that claim they can speak to the dead. Until then, suspect everything!"

Sherlock waited two seconds for "Cut!" before he broke his fake smile.

"That's a wrap, everyone!" Sally called out.

Sherlock strolled past her and tossed the microphone in her general direction. Sally dove for it and barely managed to catch it before the expensive piece of equipment hit the ground.

"Sherlock!" Sally hissed. "I've told you not to do that. And another thing we've talked about, you can't just–"

Sherlock whipped around, his trademark coat whirling about his long legs like a perfect fan. "I'm not shortening it," he hissed. "'Unmasking the Supernatural' is only part of the title and to shorten it is plain idiocy."

"The shortened title tests better in focus groups of not only viewers, but sponsors as well," Sally whined.

"I don't care," Sherlock snarled, throwing his hands in the air.

"I'll just call Mr Lestrade!" Sally threatened. "Again!"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and after hitting a few buttons, he turned the phone toward her, Greg's number all ready to be dialed. "I dare you."

Sally glared at him a moment and then yanked the phone out of his hand. She angrily hit the call button. She tapped her foot as it rang through.

"Sherlock!" Greg greeted cheerfully. "I'm excited for this coming season, I'm hearing really good things."

"Sir, it's Sally," she interrupted gently.

There was a heavy sigh on the other end. "Is this about the damn title again?" Greg asked.

"It tests better–" she began.

"Other than the opening placard and his ending narration, is the full title _anywhere_ else?"

"Well, no, sir..." she conceded.

"Then who the hell gives a damn if he says the whole thing?" Greg growled.

"Just me?" Sally ventured a guess.

"That's right. Just you. If I get another call from you about this, Miss Donovan, you'll be looking for work elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." She winced as the other line was disconnected by the phone being slammed into its cradle.

She looked up to see Sherlock standing there with the smuggest expression on his face.

"You knew he was going to say that," Sally accused him.

"Of course," he said, taking back his phone. "After all, producers are a dime a dozen, but there is only one Sherlock Holmes."

She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. He was right, of course. There was no show without him and the smug bastard knew it. As long as Sherlock Holmes wanted the job, it was his. "Unmasking the Supernatural: The Science of Demystifying the Ethereal," for all its cumbersome title, wouldn't be popular without its eccentric host.

Sherlock practically skipped off to his waiting car. It was a good day. There were three new fakes out of business and in the case of one of them, serious jail time. He had won _the_ argument with Sally. And he had managed to dodge Anderson for most of the final shooting.

A man who was currently chasing him. As much as Sherlock wanted to break into a run, he knew that it would only prolong the fight. He slowed to a stop and turned to glare at the cameraman.

"Oi!" Anderson bellowed. "What the hell do you think you were doing out there today? How the hell do you expect me to do my job, with you running about like a fucking gazelle? Huh? It's my job to make sure that we catch your little deduction bullshitting, or whatever the hell it is you do."

Sherlock's upper lip curled into a sneer that almost bordered on a full-on snarl. "No, Anderson, it is your job to man the 'shaking cam', because you have the least steady hands in the business. And since I _detest_ shaky cams, I actively avoid it, _you_." Sherlock stormed off.

"This isn't the last you'll hear of this," Anderson hissed. "And Sally says to tell that God-damned assistant of yours to answer his bloody phone when she calls, she's tired of leaving messages that never get returned."

"Tell Sally, maybe it's because he doesn't like her that he doesn't answer," Sherlock said with a shrug, before he opened the door to the waiting car and slid in. Anderson continued to rant, but Sherlock closed the door to instant quiet. He tapped on the ceiling of the car to signal the driver. The car pulled away from the curb and started making its back to London.

In the car already was a plump man with wire-framed glasses who chuckled, "How many more people are you going to piss off today?" he asked.

"That depends, Mike," Sherlock said, "on whether or not you're mad at me, too?"

"Not yet," Mike hedged, earning a short huff of laughter from Sherlock.

"What have you got for me?" the TV host asked.

"Right," Mike grunted, pulling out three folders from his briefcase. "Three would-be mediums."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There are no such thing as ghosts, therefore there are no such things as mediums."

His PA chuckled. "First up we have Molly Hooper. Twenty-five, single. Claims that ghosts have been speaking to her since she was thirteen."

Sherlock took the dossier from Mike and flipped through it. "She's not hearing ghosts, she's just a very empathetic person and uses ghosts to explain why she can guess what a person is feeling. Dull." Sherlock tossed it on the seat between him and Mike. "Next?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "We have Richard Brook. Or at least that's his name this time round."

Sherlock practically ripped the folder from Mike's hand and began devouring the details.

"What's his history?"

"Among his aliases are Sebastian Moran, James Winter, and Jared Harris. His real name is James Moriarty. Or Jim. The bloke is wanted in three states in the US, as well as a couple of cities in France, Germany, and Turkey. Several of our own lovely cities would love to get their hands on him. Um...Brighton, Sussex, and I believe Manchester."

"Interesting. What is he wanted for?"

"Estate fraud, scam artist. He goes in as a medium and bilks rich, grieving families out of millions in most cases," Mike explained.

Sherlock let out a low whistle. "Now this is more like it. And he's agreed to our show?"

"He's that confident that you won't be able to spot his fakery; also he's not aware of our little secret fact checker," Mike said, grinning.

Sherlock laughed. "Oh please let me tell Mycroft you called him that, please?"

"Oh hell no," Mike snorted.

"He only does the deep background checks on these people because he doesn't want his only living relation dead because one of the guests became violent and tried to kill me."

Mike chuckled. "I don't care what the reason, I'm grateful. You get kept alive and bad guys go to jail. Really, it's a win-win situation."

Sherlock smiled. "Well, he does love to be of use."

Mike fidgeted nervously in the seat, clutching the last folder tightly.

"Mike?" Sherlock asked, as he set aside Brook's dossier on top of Molly's.

The PA sighed. "Oh, I'm going to hell anyway." He handed over the file. "This one is a little unusual for us. He's a former captain of Her Majesty's army, surgeon, and combat medic."

"PTSD?" Sherlock asked, going through the file gingerly.

"You'd think so, but other than claiming he can see ghosts, he doesn't seem to exhibit the other signs."

Sherlock shook his head. "PTSD isn't the same for everyone. I've even heard of a case where a man couldn't listen to classical music because to him it sounded like sirens. This could be his trigger." He flipped through the pages. "What else?"

"He volunteered," Mike replied flatly.

Sherlock twisted in his seat as far the seat belt would allow. "And how on earth did that happen?"

Mike winced. "I know, right?" Sherlock just glared at him. "I know him, from uni, got back in contact after he was sent home. He's a real decent bloke."

"It's becoming clearer, but it still doesn't explain why he would _volunteer_!" Sherlock shouted.

"You know how Sally likes to do these in sets of three? Well, you've driven the fake mystics so far underground that your brother can't find them."

"Good for the innocents, but bad for business," Sherlock agreed.

"So we were having a pint, well, he was, I don't drink much anymore–" Mike started to ramble.

"Jesus Christ, Mike. Just get to the point," the TV host bit out.

"Right, well I was telling him about the trouble I was in and well, he offered to help me out."

Sherlock buried his head in his hands. "I'm not going to exploit an innocent, even if he has offered himself up as sacrificial lamb."

"It won't be like that. It'll be more like with Molly, just nudging the person in the right direction. I think he's hoping you debunk him, to be honest," Mike assured him.

"Mike..." Sherlock began. "Wait, he's a fan of the show?"

"Yeah. So you'll do it?" Mike asked, hopeful.

"God help us all, but yes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello my freaky darlings! Happy Halloween!
> 
> Here we come to John's story and a bit of tease of what's to come. 
> 
> I've started typing up part 5 and it's looking like it might be part 5 and a small epilogue. But we'll see. 
> 
> Thanks again to my awesome beta, Old Ping Hai. She really tried to help in cutting this chapter down to fit the previous chapters length. But I was way too choosey. But I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Until tomorrow! ;)

John could hardly see over the haze of sand and blood. He could barely breathe, he felt as though he could see the life draining from his body. He knew that if he didn't get help soon, he would become just another statistic.

"Please God, let me live," John coughed, blood welling up from his lips.

"Shit, Doc," a voice hissed above him.

John frowned. No one ever called him "doc."

"They really did a number on ya," the voice continued. "Let's see if I can keep you around until live help gets here."

There was something about the cadence and tone that made John frown further. The man was speaking oddly, and what did he mean by "live help"? John rubbed the dirt and grime from his eyes to see the stranger more clearly. Standing over him was a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man wearing the traditional Northumberland Fusiliers' cap, but in bright-red regimentals.

The man smiled. "Hang in there, Doc, I got ya."

John turned his head and saw that the young soldier had begun working on the wound in his shoulder and slowly, the feeling of impending death drifted further from his reach.

He thought for sure that this young man was probably going to save his life, when the strange soldier cussed. But the words didn't mean anything to John.

"Sorry, Doc," the man said mournfully. "This is going to hurt like hell."

John only had time to blink twice before the other man did something that caused white-hot pain to shoot down his arm, and then the world went black.

When he came to, he was draped over the shoulder of an army medic. And if the boots were any indication, it was most likely Bill Murray, the combat nurse. The man had very large feet.

It took John a moment, but he began to realize that Murray was muttering over and over again, "Hold on, Captain. We're almost home."

John looked up to see the strange soldier just standing there, but he never seemed to get further away.

"I think you'll make it, Doc," the strange soldier said as Bill entered the base, and suddenly there was a flurry of activity to take John into surgery. John looked over at the stranger before they put on an oxygen mask. The stranger waved goodbye, the sand kicked up and the stranger vanished on the wind.

When John woke up after the surgery, the doctor who finished what the stranger had started was standing by his bed. Clayton Marrow was a large bear of a man and a buddy of John's.

"Bloody hell, Watson," Marrow boomed, causing John to wince in pain from the sound of it. "I don't know how you did it, but digging out the bullet when you did probably saved your life."

John frowned and then winced again. He smoothed out his face the best he could, but it was still pinched in pain. "Didn't– didn't Murray do that?"

Marrow laughed. "Can't even remember your own daring-do. That bullet must have messed you up good."

John opened his mouth to mention the stranger, but there was something in the glint of the eyes of his friend that made him close it quickly. What made him stop? Marrow leaned forward, just a little, and John got the feeling that maybe Marrow wasn't as friendly as he appeared.

John gulped. "Yeah, that must be it."

Marrow leaned back like he had been slapped. He clearly was waiting for John to reveal the secret of how he survived. John felt a cold chill settle between this shoulder blades. He knew that if he mentioned the stranger to Marrow, he'd be out of the army or worse, sanctioned.

Marrow turned up the drip on John's morphine and soon John could remember no more.

* * *

 

When John came to that night, the stranger was standing guard at his bed. But all John could think of was the pain he was in. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on his apparition.

Now he could see that the soldier had a hazy look to him. Like the heat of the desert just slightly warping the horizon. "Thank you," John managed to croak out.

"Hell, Doc, I like these fancy machines you blokes got these days." The ghost shook his head. "Maybe I might have lived."

John wanted to ask the soldier a million questions. But suddenly he couldn't think of a single one.

The soldier turned to walk away and the clean, healthy appearance of the man vanished. There was a bandage on his left arm, his head was wrapped in what looked like someone's handkerchief, and his entire right leg was missing. The soldier leaned heavily on a single crutch.

He looked over his shoulder, and with grin that reminded John of someone, said, "I may not be as smart as my little brother, but Ol' Bertie knows a trick or two."

It took John a minute to realize that the man was talking about himself.

"And you want to know what else I know?" Bertie asked with a wink.

"What?" John asked.

"I know you're gonna be just fine."

He started to vanish, but before he disappeared altogether, John caught sight of Bertie's messenger bag. Stitched by a loving hand was the name A. Watson.

Watson. John tried to figure out what it all meant, but before he could fully latch onto the thought, the tent flap burst open and in walked Murray.

"I hope you weren't waiting too long," Murray said.

John shook his head and instantly regretted it.

"Your head still hurting you I see," Murray said as he began the routine of checking the machines, changing the saline bag, and making notations on the chart.

"I hear you didn't take credit for your continuing survival. It sure got Dr Marrow in a twist," Bill commented dryly.

John snorted. Now there was an understatement. John watched Murray for a moment before taking a deep breath. "And if I said, I didn't do jack shit, someone else did?"

Bill stopped what he was doing to look John square in the eye.

"You saw me, Murray, what kind of shape I was in when you found me?" John pressed. "Do you think I could have done what they claim I did?"

Murray sighed. "Well, no. But how else would you explain it? There was no one else there. No evidence of anyone out there but you, surrounded by those not so lucky."

John took a steadying breath. "I have an answer for that, but I got the feeling that I'd be sanctioned for such talk."

Murray took two steps closer and whispered, "You talking ghosts, Cap?"

"And if I was?" John asked seriously.

Bill looked down at the chart in his hand and sighed. "We've all seen things out here that no one would believe. Be it ghosts or spirits or whatever the hell you want to call them."

"I don't know how else to explain it," John admitted wearily.

"So don't," Murray agreed. "Just be careful who you tell."

John thought back to his conversation with Marrow and nodded.

"Trust your instincts, Cap," Murray warned. "They haven't steered you wrong yet."

Murray adjusted his morphine drip and John slipped into the arms of Morpheus, dreaming of three brothers playing soldiers in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

* * *

 

Coming back from Afghanistan was even more hair-raising than the actual war. At least there John didn't have to worry about moving out of someone's way, only to find other people staring at him funny because the person he stepped aside for wasn't really there. Or the ghosts that would stand on street corner, in hallways, or in the middle of the room and scream. Just scream, nothing else.

Of course there were ghosts that tried to hurt him. He would wake up to find scratch marks on his arms. Bruises on his legs. They couldn't do more than that, but it was fun trying to explain them to his therapist.

Some of the apparitions could speak, but most were mute. Silent in their agony and pain. Their loss and mourning etched into their features but not able to tell of their torment. John liked those only marginally better than the screamers and the violent ones.

But the ones like Bertie, who could speak, John found interesting. Sometimes the specters wouldn't know they were dead. Others were just trying to do some good in the world to buy a little virtue to get out of Purgatory.

John had a vague idea what the silent ones were trying to say most of the time; but the one that haunted his bathroom, he had no idea what the hell _she_ wanted.

John got undressed in the small one-room bedsit and put on his bathrobe. He grabbed his towel from the one closet in the room and made his way to the ensuite bathroom.

He supposed he should feel grateful that the army sprang for one with an attached bathroom instead of the communal one like he had back during his uni days. He sighed and opened the door.

Then he screeched and threw the door shut again. He took a steadying breath and opened the door slowly. Sure enough, there was a young woman with long, black locks and cold, dead eyes.

"Um, miss?" John asked. She continued her blank stare. He looked behind himself just to be certain she wasn't looking at someone else, but he was the only one there. He stepped around her into the bathroom and her eyes followed him.

Deciding to ignore her, he turned on the shower and once the water was hot enough, dropped his robe. Her gaze never faltered, but neither did it change from the same blank stare.

He stepped into the shower and bathed quickly, mindful of the woman on the other side of the shower curtain.

When he got out, she was gone. But every time he went to take a shower, there she was, ever watchful. It was strange, though. It was only when he showered, never when he went to relieve himself.

* * *

 

John nursed the beer Mike Stamford had bought him.

The portly man snickered. "You still having problems with your bathroom haunt?"

John let out a long sigh. "I haven't met any other spook like her. She is absolutely terrifying. All she does is stare at me. It's making it really hard to shower."

Mike thumped him on the shoulder, his good one. "I'm sorry to hear that, mate. Anywhere else you can go, Harry maybe?"

"Oh hell no. Her and Clara are in the middle of one of their knock-out, drag-out fights at the moment. Harry throws things when she's pissed."

"Damn," Mike consoled. "So she's back to drinking again?"

"Yeah, Clara found three empty bottles of Scotch, two half-empty bottles of rum, and a mostly full bottle of whiskey under their bed."

Mike's eyes went wide. "How can a tiny thing like her hold that much liquor?"

"God only knows." John took a long draft of his pint. "But enough about me, you still working with Sherlock Holmes on that show of his?"

Mike beamed. "Hell ya!" His grin faltered a little though..

"Uh-oh, what's he done now?"

Mike perked up a bit at that. "Huh? What? No, Sherlock might a bit rough around the edges, but he's a decent bloke."

"That's not what the rumors say about him," John said with a chuckle. "I believe the words used are 'arrogant', 'tyrannical', and 'exacting'."

"Nonsense, he's just a perfectionist," Mike defended before he saw the smile on John's face. "You were teasing me, weren't you?"

"It's fun watching you defend the guy," John said with a half-shrug.

"Anyway," Mike said ignoring the comment all together. "The problem is that the guy is too good at his job. And with Sally insisting on the three fakes an episode, it's getting harder and harder to find people who are willing to do the show. We've even expanded to world-wide."

"Damn, I'm sorry," John commiserated. "What's this one going to be about?"

Mike turned to him and deadpanned, "Mediums."

John, who was taking a drink of his beer, spewed it everywhere.

"Seriously?" John asked after wiping the beer from his face.

"Yeah," Mike groused. "I just need one more."

"So I'll do it," John said, draining his beer.

"John..." Mike protested. "You watch the show. Most of the time the people are at _least_ humiliated and at most arrested. Is that really what you want to put yourself through?"

"Nah, I'll give him a thrill," John said, waving away his concern. "What did he used to say before they made him use that stupid catch phrase, 'Suspect everything'?"

"'Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'," Mike dutifully quoted.

Mike looked up mournfully, "You'll go easy on him? I'd hate to see him being humiliated."

"I wouldn't do that to him," John urged. "You know how much I respect the guy's work. It's just…" he broke into a grin, "can you imagine the look on that sour grapes Sally when it comes out I'm the real deal?"

Mike chuckled. "Yeah."

"Besides," John said. "What could possibly go wrong?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to day three! I hope you're as excited as I am. 
> 
> No John. Yet. ;) That's in part four. 
> 
> Also, I want to bring your attention to the chapter counter. It has, indeed, gone up. There will be a shiny, happy epilogue.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock's next meeting was with his location scout. Technically, the show had its own, but he took his cues from Sherlock's man. Bill Wiggins might look like a weasel, but he had an instinct about places that Sherlock trusted implicitly.

Sherlock stood waiting on the corner of the street, smoking, when Wiggins rose up from the bench and stood next to him.

"You got an extra fag?" Wiggins asked. Sherlock handed him one and then lit it for him. "Thanks."

They stood smoking for a bit before Sherlock asked, "What have you got for me?"

Wiggins smiled, revealing too few teeth. "For the Miss, a place that's not haunted at all." He pulled out a grubby envelope and handed it to Sherlock.

The TV host thumbed through the contents and nodded. "There's a local legend?"

"Yeah, about some hell hound or something," Wiggins said, and took a long drag of his cigarette.

"But she wouldn't have heard of it?" Sherlock pressed.

"Nah, they don't want to turn it into a tourist trap or some shite like that," Wiggins said, shaking his head.

"Good, what else?" Sherlock asked, feeling the excitement rise.

"Got your brother involved," Wiggins added, nonchalant.

"Really?" Sherlock turned to look at the street rat in amazement. "I thought my brother practiced a more hands-off approach to this show?"

Wiggins chuckled. "I may have let it slip that there was a secret military base nearby that might catch your interest."

Sherlock laughed. "Well, it's not very secret if you know about it, Wiggins."

Wiggins placed his hand over his chest, "Aw, you wound me, Mr Holmes." Sherlock waved him off, which caused the street rat to laugh. "Nah, it's not secret because you ain't supposed to know it's there. It's secret, see, because no one knows what's going on behind closed doors. There's even a landmine field surrounding the joint."

"That certainly is excessive. They might as well post a sign that says, 'We are doing horrible things! Keep Out!'"

"Who says they ain't?"

Sherlock laughed. "At least I won't be bored." He threw the remains of the cigarette he was smoking to the curb and lit another. "What's next?"

"The Tower of London for the charlatan," Wiggins said, pulling out a second grubby envelope to hand to Sherlock.

Again Sherlock thumbed through the contents. "His choice, I suspect."

"Yeah," Wiggins agreed. "Said he wouldn't do the show otherwise."

"And we're assuming he has people on the inside to do his dirty work," Sherlock said, tucking the two envelopes into the inside breast pocket of his coat.

"Come on, boss, would I come to ya with just assumptions?" Wiggins whined.

"Of course not," Sherlock agreed. "And let me guess, you've already found a way to subvert these little surprises?"

"Sure thing," Wiggins replied.

"Good," he said as he touched the outside of the coat where the envelopes were hidden. "And for the last one, Watson? What have we got for him?"

"Don't worry, boss," the street rat said rubbing his hands together. "We've got something real special for him."

* * *

Molly stood nervously in front of the inn. She had thought about looking the place up several times, but that would be cheating. She didn't want to cheat. She wanted to prove to Sherlock Holmes that she was the real deal. Oh, well, not the _real_ deal. She never claimed to be able to _see_ ghosts, of course. She hears them from the other side or something.

She really wished she had thought to bring a handkerchief or some– she stopped her train of thought. She was about to say something again. She was nervous. She was going to meet the one and only Sherlock Holmes. She had seen pictures of him and watched him on the telly all the time, but she was actually going to meet him. She had been offered the chance to drive up with Sherlock, but Molly couldn't do that. She probably would have thrown up on his shoes.

She started to twist her fingers together behind her back and rock back and forth on her heels.

When the long, black car stopped in front of her she almost had heart failure. It was time. Sherlock stepped out onto the curb and she was blown away by how he looked in person. The telly really hadn't done him any justice. He had toussled, dark curls, piercing eyes that refused to be called one color, and legs that went on forever.

He was dressed in a black suit with a purple shirt. She couldn't stop staring at the shirt, it was so tight that the buttons were threatening to burst free. She found herself willing them to do so. Sherlock coughed and her eyes drifted up that long column of throat to those pale, Cupid's bow lips and those cheek bones. She reached out, but Sherlock mistook the gesture and shook her hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Hooper," Sherlock said, his fake smile firmly in place. "I'm so glad you agreed to do my show. Are you familiar with the format?"

"A little," Molly said, reluctantly releasing his hand.

"We try to do this with as much dignity as possible, but here is always a chance that this could go badly for you. Are you all right with that?"

Molly opened her mouth to answer, but closed it sharply. She had seen the show, of course. A lot of the people were left humiliated. She took a deep breath. Her father always said, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"It's all right, if you want to back out," Sherlock soothed. "No one would think any less of you."

Molly squared her shoulders. "No, it's fine, I understand. I'll do the show."

Sherlock flashed her a grin that made her falter, just a little. But she was committed to this now. There was no backing out.

He turned to the door that would lead them into the inn and walked to open it. "The owner is a friend of mine," Sherlock said over his shoulder. "Well, when I say friend..."

Molly frowned. She really didn't know what to make of that statement. It was just so strange.

She was introduced to the owner, Mike, and a feeling of unease settled over her like an ill-fitting garment.

They spoke for several minutes before Molly finally cottoned on. Sherlock and Mike seemed to not give off any social cues. Not with their tone, their posture, or facial expressions. At best she could describe them as pleasant, but bland. It was unnerving.

Molly twisted her fingers anxiously behind her back. She only half listened as the owner droned on about the history of the building, the town, the military base, the famous people who stayed at the inn.

She was trying to focus on getting some kind of clue from Sherlock and the owner. By the time they worked their way around the building to the kitchen, she was a sobbing wreck.

They got her a drink of water and a tissue. They shared a look and that's all it took. She wailed, "The ghosts aren't speaking to me!"

"Ghosts? Are you sure there are ghosts?" Sherlock asked.

Molly looked up into his face and knew it was time to come clean."There weren't any ghosts for me to speak to, were there?"

Mike shook his head. "Not at all, Miss Hooper." He pulled out a chair and Molly sank into it heavily. She clutched her cup of water and braced her elbows on her knees.

"You were waiting for me to tell you outright that there weren't any ghosts, weren't you? Because if I had been able to speak to the dead, I would have immediately picked up on that, wouldn't I?"

They both nodded.

She sighed heavily again. "I don't do it to be malicious or hurtful," she explained. "I don't even charge for it, really. Sometimes they'll give me money or a small gift, but that's it, I swear."

Molly had been looking down throughout her ramble and when she looked up, she gasped. There had been a subtle shift in their demeanor and suddenly she found that she could read them just fine.

"You're brothers!" she exclaimed. That was the meaning behind the cryptic comment from Sherlock earlier.

The owner bowed shallowly, mostly with his head and shoulders. "Very good, Miss Hooper. I am Mycroft Holmes. At your service."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said waving his hand. "The arrogant sod is my brother."

"So how do you do it?"

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a confused glance. "Do what, exactly, Miss Hooper?" Mycroft asked.

"That thing that you did with me earlier, where you were completely blank? I've never seen anyone do that before."

Sherlock scowled and Mycroft turned away.

"Ah, right. Well, never mind," she stammered.

An awkward silence descended.

"So what's going to happen with me now?" she asked trying to fill the void. The two men turned to look at her. "I mean," she continued, "it's not like this was a job or anything but seriously, now what?"

"Oh, Miss Hooper," Sherlock purred. "The possibilities are endless."

* * *

"Molly Hooper gave up the medium gig and is now going to school to become a grief counselor. She said that the show was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She went on to say that she had been been living in the past and it was time to move toward a better future. Next up, Richard Brook."

* * *

Sherlock out and out laughed when he saw the "haunted house" that Brook was using as his headquarters. It was an old Edwardian house that had long ago been split into flats.

He knocked on the door and then turned to glare at Anderson as he got too close.

Anderson sneered. "You're not going lose me this time, Holmes. I assure you that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the door when it opened.

He was shocked to silence when he saw who had answered the door, his speech dying on his tongue. He had been expecting Brook, so when he saw the small, elderly woman clothed in a plum dress, he didn't know what to say.

"Oh, hello," she said, her eyes darting between Sherlock and Anderson. "You must be the nice young men to pick up M– " she stopped and put her hand to her mouth. "Mr Brook," she corrected.

"Mrs Hudson!" a voiced called out from inside.

Sherlock looked in and then followed the stairs up to the landing. At the top was a man in a light grey suit. His eyes were dark as his hair. He was finishing getting ready by putting on gold cufflinks. His brow was furrowed in a deep frown that made his features a mask of pure fury.

"What did I tell you about answering my door?" Brook yelled.

Mrs Hudson flinched. "I called," she whimpered, "but you mustn't have heard me."

He came down the stairs, and Sherlock couldn't help but admire his grace. Like watching a deadly snake drawing nearer. Brook reached the bottom of the stairs and drew close to Mrs Hudson's face. "And what have I told you about what to do when I don't hear you?"

"But my hip!" Mrs Hudson complained.

Brook lashed out with the back of his hand, striking her across the face. "Go!"

She didn't even bother looking at the two men who had witnessed the whole thing, she just turned tail and ran.

Brook turned to Anderson, "If I see so much as a second of this on that show of yours, I will ski-in you."

Sherlock coughed, "Richard Brook," he said dryly.

And just like that, the psychopath was gone and a charmer stood in his place. "Well aren't you just as pretty as a picture," Brook cooed, "The telly just doesn't do you any justice."

"I'm sure," Sherlock said flatly. And without another word he turned around and led Brook to the waiting car. Anderson hopped into a camera van, completely separate from Brook and Sherlock.

"Aww, Sherlock, you sure do know how to woo me," Brook said as the driver pulled from the curb.

"Not likely," Sherlock bit out through gritted teeth.

Brook looked over at the driver and then winked. "I knew I would catch your attention eventually. It was only a matter of time."

Sherlock looked sidelong at Brook, shocked. "Excuse me?"

"Don't get me wrong, I was having fun before your little show came along, but when I saw it for the first time I knew you'd be fun to play with. So I left the States to come to this side of the Atlantic." Brook closed his eyes, "It was _agony_ waiting for you notice me." He opened his eyes and clapped his hands together. "Oh, but what fun we'll have."

"Indeed," Sherlock ground out.

The tour through the Tower of London was almost comical. At least from Sherlock's point of view. Brook, on the other hand, grew more and more frustrated as his tricks failed to preform. Well, not all of them; Sherlock had left a few that he could point out as fakes.

By the time they reached the Crown Jewels, Brook was positively howling in rage.

Then like a sudden cold had descended, Brook was calm. He smoothed out his hair and the front of his suit.

"You won this round, Sherlock," he said, clicking the last syllable with a hard 'K'. He strolled out the door.

"Catch you later!" Sherlock called after him.

"No, you won't!" Brook called back.

* * *

Sherlock was leaning against the bonnet of a police car as Brook struggled with two uniformed officers. Off to the side stood a grizzled detective inspector. Sherlock had taken the car back to Baker Street, where he knew the con man would have run to first.

"James Moriarty, you are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering," DI Gregson said to the man still fighting with his captors.

"You might want to add battery and stalking to those charges," Sherlock called out.

Gregson looked at Sherlock briefly before he snapped his attention back to Moriarty. "What's this then?"

The con man stopped in his tracks and turned to Sherlock with a look of pure shock.

"I have video of him slapping his landlady," Sherlock explained. The look on Gregson's face turned deadly. "Also I have a recording of him admitting to stalking me. So you may want to check his laptop and other devices for further evidence of either. I also have no doubt the landlady will testify."

"Well, well, Mr Holmes," Gregson said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "This is the prettiest fish you have netted me to date."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to Moriarty. He got into the other man's face. "No one threatens my crew," he hissed. "You are quite fortunate to have these officers around."

"He threatened me!" Moriarty crowed.

"You hear anything, Dimmock?" Gregson asked one of the officers holding Moriarty.

"Just Holmes talking real nice to the suspect here," Dimmock replied.

"How about you, Abernathy?" Gregson asked the other officer.

"Sorry, sir," she replied. "I wasn't really paying attention to what Holmes was saying, did he say something wrong?"

Gregson shook his head, "Not a thing, Abernathy, not a God damn thing."

"That's not fair!" Moriarty complained.

Abernathy handcuffed their suspect and led him to the police car that Sherlock had been leaning against. She shoved him in and was about to slam the door when Sherlock stopped her with a quiet, "Wait."

She stepped back and Sherlock leaned forward into the car. "I just have one more thing to say."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "What's that?"

"You repel me." Sherlock then slammed the car door shut and tapped on the roof to let the officer driving the car know it was safe to go.

The officer pulled away from the curb and Sherlock could hear Moriarty screaming his name.

He smiled brightly before skipping over to the dark door with the brass fixture proclaiming 221B. He went inside to tell Mrs Hudson the good news about her tenant.

* * *

"Richard Brook, the alias of the criminal Jim Moriarty, was booked on all charges. He is currently in the Pentonville prison awaiting trail. Up next, Dr John Watson."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part four is live, everyone! And the part everyone one has been waiting for. Also what I've been calling part 1 of the twist. ;)
> 
> Part five and the epilogue are almost done being edited so they will being going up as scheduled. Might even give you the epilogue early, if there's enough call for it. Which it might. Shhhh. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

John licked his bottom lip. He was excited. He hadn't felt like this since he was in the army. John was practically humming with adrenaline, tapping his fingers on his thigh as the car drove him to the location chosen by the show. Sherlock had asked if he could come get him and have them drive up together. But John didn't want to let Sherlock see his little, run-down bedsit.

John licked his lip again. There was a lot to be excited about. Meeting Sherlock Holmes, whom he had a lot of respect for. Showing said idol that there were people out there who can speak with the dead or see ghosts. That John Watson was the real deal. And to top it all off, John was leaving London for the first time since being invalided home. He loved London. But he was used to traveling all over the world and it was a nice change to get away from the four greying walls of his bedsit. He couldn't wait.

The car pulled up to the house. John rolled down his window and stuck his head out a bit to get a better view. It was a large house and even words like mansion or castle failed to match its enormity. Built in the late Victorian style of the turn of the 20th century, it was extremely impressive indeed.

_This place is haunted?_ John thought. _Damn!_ His eyes traveled from the building to the figure standing out in front of it. There were set people milling about and there was a cameraman standing in front of the house as well, but John couldn't see any of them. Because Sherlock Holmes was standing on the curb, waiting for him, waiting for John Watson.

The car finally rolled to a stop and John got out.

Sherlock sucked in a hiss of breath. The former soldier in person was nothing like his photos. He wasn't the confident army medic with a wink in his eye and a cocky grin, nor was he the haggard, pale sickly thing from the photos taken post-op. He still had his deadly stare and tan skin, but he walked a little more gingerly, greeted the world with a little bit more caution; and Sherlock was awed.

"Captain Watson," Sherlock said, coming up to John to shake his hand.

John took the offered hand. "It's not captain anymore."

"Doctor, then?" Sherlock offered.

"Yeah, but you can call me John," the army doctor replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last. Mike has told me all about you."

"Only good things, I hope," Sherlock said with a cheeky grin, puffing out his chest a little.

"The best. He thinks very highly of you." John smiled back. He then realized that during that whole exchange, neither one of them had released the other's hand. John coughed and then reluctantly let go. He scratched the back of his neck and blushed.

"So, I have a strange question," John began.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, why do you insist on using the show's full title?" John inquired. "I mean, wouldn't it be easier to just use the shortened version?"

Sherlock deflated. He had hoped John would like the full title. "There's a science to what I do. It's not just about unmasking the supernatural. That implies that these people are real. And I think it's a good idea to remind people that I'm debunking fakes using science and not a fellow mystic conquering other mystics."

John chuckled. "Ah ha, well thanks for telling me."

Sherlock felt a little glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, John would be different from _any_ of their other guests. "Shall we go into the house?" he asked, sweeping his arm behind them.

John nodded and they made their way to the front door, walking in step with each other. Anderson followed behind, close but not in their way.

John itched to take Sherlock's hand again. He could still feel the warmth of the other man's touch on his palm. A warmth that was working its way into John's blood and warming his heart in ways he didn't believe was possible after being forced to leave the army.

To take his mind off the feeling, John asked with a wink, "So, what can you tell me about this place that wouldn't be cheating?"

Sherlock blushed and Anderson stopped walking with them, mouth hanging open. "Uh..let's see. It was built in 1896 by a Charles Augustus Milverton, who named it Appledore. It also has a long and terrible history of misfortune."

"'Appledore'? Why on earth would he call it that?" John asked.

"Because there used to be orchards out back," Sherlock explained. He turned to Anderson, "We'll start at the posterior of the house."

Anderson was at a loss. He didn't know how to reply to Sherlock not screaming at him, so he didn't and dutifully followed the two men to the rear of the property.

The two just chatted about the house's history as they made their way around the massive building to the orchard.

"Holy fucking hell," John exclaimed as they cleared the house. "What on earth happened here?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Impressive, isn't?"

Half the orchard was relatively normal, a bit overgrown and wild from lack of care. About what you'd expect from a haunted house. The other side, on the other hand, was filled with massive burnt and blackened stumps of what was left of the trees.

"She must have been crazy," John huffed.

"'She'?" Anderson squawked.

"That's a shame, I'm sorry you had to go that way," John continued as if he hadn't heard the question.

Sherlock frowned. "No one knows for sure what happened here. No one can find any records of it at all."

"Still she was your wife," John said.

Sherlock and Anderson shared a glance over John's head. The three men didn't have wives. Anderson's had divorced him two years ago and both Sherlock and John were single.

John laughed. "Right. Good luck."

Sherlock opened his mouth the answer but John wasn't even looking at him. The doctor was looking out into the mangled, blackened remains.

Sherlock coughed and John's head snapped to the sound as if startled.

"Oh, sorry," John said. "Shall we go inside?"

Sherlock just nodded, unsure of what to say.

John waved at the orchard before turning around to go into the house. Sherlock looked back at Anderson, who merely shrugged. According to the house records, no one had ever reported seeing _any_ ghosts out by the orchard.

"We'll just go through the back door," Sherlock said, striding out in front of John to lead the way. "Well, one of them. There is also is a servants' entrance on the other side, but this one is closer. It goes straight into the study. Scholars believe that this is how Milverton got his victims to come pay him for his blackmail without his servants ever knowing they were there."

John nodded.

Sherlock opened the door and before John could take three steps into the study, he was blasted by screaming.

John covered his ears and screamed back, "Fuck off, you mad bastard! Leave me alone!"

Sherlock was so shocked by the reaction that he took a step back.

Anderson frowned. "Hey!" the cameraman hollered, stepping forward and starting to put his camera down.

"Stop screaming, you arsehole!" John continued. "You deserve that bullet in your head!"

Anderson abruptly stopped his motion and quickly zoomed in on John.

John was looking frantically for an exit, and Sherlock immediately rushed to open the door that led to the hallway.

John saw the opening and bolted, hands still covering his ears.

Sherlock and Anderson followed on his heels. They found him leaning up against the wall, rocking back and forth, still covering his ears.

Sherlock closed the door behind Anderson and John slumped to the floor. Sherlock looked at one of the assistants and motioned for a bottle of water. She grabbed one out of a cooler and dashed over to hand it to him. Sherlock opened the lid and then passed it over to John.

John took it without a word and guzzled more than half of it in one go. "Thanks, I haven't had a screamer in a while. I'd forgotten how much it hurt when they just won't shut up."

Sherlock stood up. "You mentioned he had a gun shot wound in his head, can you describe the person you saw?"

John took another long draft of his water. "Tall, thin, reedy-looking bloke. Clothes that were more Victorian than modern. Goatee. Smarmy bastard. Why?"

"John, you just described Milverton."

"Oh. Then I'm glad someone did him in proper," John agreed. He looked up at Sherlock and frowned. He was standing closer to the cameraman. Which if Mike was to be believed, the two men _hated_ each other.

He thought back to what he said in the study and his jaw dropped. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit." He scrambled to stand up. He placed his water bottle on the small table that bore flowers, next to the door.

"You thought I was calling you a mad bastard, when I first encountered Milverton, didn't you?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, but kept his distance. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and turned away.

Anderson snorted. "It's an easy mistake for him to make, he's been called worse things by the people they had on the show."

Sherlock glared at him, but the cameraman just shrugged.

John moved forward and placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. "God, I would never call you that. Or anything like that. I got thinking that there were just nice ghosts here, because the gardener out back. I should have known better. There are too many kinds of ghosts and they all can be in the same place."

John rubbed his hands over his face. This was not how he planned the day to go. At all.

Sherlock blushed. "Shall we go on?"

John nodded, feeling a little sad. He then on impulse grabbed Sherlock and pulled him in for a hug. "I think you're brilliant," he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

The TV host stood there for a moment, in shock but then moved to wrap his arms around John. "Thank you."

Sherlock moved back first and John just couldn't believe that he had hugged the man. Hell, he was surprised that security hadn't been called.

"Shall we move on?" Sherlock asked again.

John smiled, "Sure, lead on, MacDuff!"

"There are several areas of the house that are considered haunted," Sherlock explained, as they walked down the hall to a set of staircases. "Milverton made it to be maze like; his servants were often getting lost and were forbidden to make maps. It is suspected that he did this to prevent would-be vigilantes trying to avenge their love ones or even the victims themselves breaking in to steal the evidence on them."

They were about to turn and go up the stairs when John stopped in his tracks. There in the middle of the hall was a blonde woman in a wedding dress. But that wasn't what made he stop. No, it was the fact that she was pointing a Beretta 92S at Sherlock, her finger on the trigger.

John stepped up between Sherlock and the bride assassin. "Hey, you leave him out this. He can't even see you. This is between you and me." He held up his hand, placating. "If you need to hurt someone, hurt me. I'm used to you lot trying to harm me. He isn't."

The assassin bride stepped her left and John stepped with her, keeping the barrel in his sight the whole time.

She screamed her frustration.

John tried not to wince. A malevolent spirit with a penchant for violence? Sherlock sure knew how to pick his haunted houses. Sheesh.

But while he was trying to protect Sherlock, he couldn't see what the other man was doing, so he almost jumped when he felt the light touch on his arm. But when Sherlock gasped, John whirled around. Sherlock was moving away from him with his hands covering his mouth.

"What is she doing with that gun?" Sherlock gasped.

John whipped back around to see the assassin bride squeezing the trigger, he twisted and dove for Sherlock. In mid-air, John cried out and fell to the ground in a heap.

"Stop!" Sherlock cried out, throwing up his hand to where he last saw the gunman.

John could hear the assassin bride screeching in agony and then nothing. He looked up when Sherlock touched his shoulder.

"John!" Sherlock called. John struggled to sit up and Sherlock helped him to an upright position. "Are you all right?"

John flinched from the pain. "It hurts like hell, and the ghosts can sometimes break the skin with their intent, but they can't do anything that would cause permanent harm."

"John..." Sherlock had a million questions, but they had to wait. John was clearly in a lot of pain. He opened his mouth to ask further about how hurt he was, when he realized John was unbuttoning his shirt and Sherlock's brain went off line.

"Can you check it for me?" John was saying when Sherlock's brain had come back on. He was leaning away from Sherlock, having pulled down his collar so Sherlock could get a look at the shoulder in question.

Sherlock took the collar from John's hands and peeled back more of the material. "That is one hell of a nasty bruise. Did her bullet do that?"

"Fuck," John cursed as he pulled his shirt from Sherlock's fingers and began buttoning back up again. "Yeah. I'm just glad it didn't bleed. I think she changed the intent of the bullet when she saw it was going to hit me and not you."

Once John was back on his feet, he turned to Sherlock, "Wait, how could you see her?"

"I touched your arm when you stepped to your right and I could see her. She was screaming that I couldn't have you. But she vanished when I yelled for her to stop."

John looked up at Sherlock in awe. "She just went away because you told her to stop?"

Sherlock simply shrugged.

"Hot damn, can you show me how you did that?"

Anderson stepped forward. "Actually he can, the spirit in the study."

John and Sherlock shared a look and a feral grin spread over Sherlock's face. "Oh, yes, let's."

John followed the TV host and the cameraman dutifully back down the hallway. He didn't like it, but in some way he could see the appeal. He could show Sherlock that he hadn't called _him_ a mad bastard, but there was something niggling at the back of his mind, saying that this was a bad idea.

The three of them stood in front of the door that led back into the study. John took a deep breath and braced himself for the screaming as Sherlock opened the door.

Instantly the screaming started back up again, and bravely soldiering on, he walked into the room. Sherlock and Anderson trailed behind. Sherlock looked around and couldn't see anything.

John reached out his hand. Sherlock stared at it a moment and then took it. He whirled to where Milverton was standing, his mouth open in an endless wail.

"After all this time and you are _still_ moaning about how a woman beat you? Upset that a woman decided that you were rubbish and put you down like a dog." Sherlock shook his head. "Begone!"

John covered his ears to protect his ears from the resulting shriek. And then as abruptly as it began it was gone. John looked up and the spirit was gone. "I think I love you," he blurted.

Anderson cursed, "Well, I'll be damned."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and promptly fainted.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hell it's after midnight where I am. So as far as I'm concerned it's Thursday. 
> 
> This is the final chapter before the fluffy epilogue. It really stressed me out not being able to get this chapter done before Halloween. Lesson learned though, when coming up with a huge idea for a Halloween fic, be sure to start in September. After all, the readers won't know you've been sitting on finished story unless you tell them. 
> 
> There's also a little wink to Houdini and Doyle. See if you can spot it. It's actually pretty obvious. ;)

John sat in the now-demystified study. Whatever Sherlock had done, it seemed to be permanent. He swirled the dark amber liquid in his glass, watching the whiskey slosh around.

"I've never seen or heard of anyone who could do what he just did," John murmured.

"Surely there have been priests or shamans able to dispel the spirits of the dead," Mycroft replied. He had arrived at the house by helicopter only an hour after Sherlock had fainted.

"Yeah," John agreed, "but in those stories they usually invoke God or use spells. But this was just Sherlock telling ghosts to go away with the sheer power of his own will. Frankly I'm surprised that he didn't pass out after the first one." John took a drink of the whiskey. "Is he going to be okay?"

"If you mean physically? Yes, he'll be fine," Mycroft said, tapping the arm of the chair. "But my brother has just learned that the voices that he's been hearing his whole life aren't as much from psychosis as they are from being psychic."

John snorted.

"Something, I may add, my brother has spent his whole life disproving."

"Yeah," John agreed.

"He's resilient, he'll come out of this all the stronger, it just might take some time," Mycroft said.

John sat for a moment and then got up to pour himself some more whiskey. He leaned up against the sidebar and crossed one foot over the other. "You do know that this wasn't deliberate, right? I wasn't trying to hurt him or humiliate him." John took another long sip of of his drink. "I thought it would be a cheap thrill. I'd come in and show the Great Skeptic Sherlock Holmes that there was more to life than he supposed. Maybe take him out to dinner and we'd have a laugh. I sure the hell wasn't trying to make his own latent medium abilities come out." He looked morosely into his glass before downing it in one gulp. He poured himself another. This one he took to his chair and sat back down.

"Indeed," Mycroft conceded.

"So why are you even here?" John asked, crossing one leg over the other. "Don't tell me it's because Sherlock fainted. You don't seem the overprotective type. What's the matter, you afraid that it might be contagious or worse, hereditary?"

Mycroft smiled blandly. "Of course it's hereditary. I'm fortunate to have it pass by me. But Sherlock got it from our mother." John just blinked at him. "I believe that because our mother could see and hear ghosts, Sherlock normalized what he was seeing. People would assume that he was crazy or just talking to himself. But since she was doing it, too, he thought that they were the crazy ones."

"That would explain a lot," John admitted. Mycroft smirked.

They lapsed into silence. John stared at his drink as he began to put together the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Why did he decide to devote his life to debunking the supernatural?" he asked after awhile.

"You could ask him," Mycroft replied.

"Yes, but you know, and it'll make it easier to figure out how to get him to overcome whatever the hell this is."

Mycroft leveled his gaze at John and the doctor didn't falter for a second. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Fine. When Sherlock was a teenager, our mother passed away. I was already finished with university by then, being Sherlock's elder by seven years, and had moved away. When she first passed on it seemed that our father was merely grieving. But he began to have people come over to the house. Mystics, mediums, shamans. All trying to communicate with our mother.

"The more they were proven to be fake, the more desperate he became to find one that wasn't. I was forced to move back in when my father took his madness further. Yelling and screaming at Sherlock, throwing things, just going into rages. If Sherlock cried, it would only make things worse for him.

"He wasn't even allowed to smile or laugh. He wasn't grieving for his mother like he was supposed to. My father never blamed me, nor was it ever my fault, but I learned to keep my own face blank, and taught Sherlock to do the same."

"You poor bastards," John hissed.

Mycroft's eyes blazed. "I have no need for your pity," he snapped.

John leveled a steely glare at the elder Holmes, "And you won't get it, either. I was a soldier, you forget. I know that sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to survive."

Mycroft coughed. "You have my apologies."

"It's fine," John replied.

The study door opened and a haggard Sherlock slipped in. Both John and Mycroft stood up, but Mycroft let John assist his brother into a nearby sofa.

"Shouldn't you still be in bed?" Mycroft asked.

"I came here because I knew it would ghost free," Sherlock murmured. "All the other spirits in the house decided that they wanted to come and thank me for getting rid of Milverton and Mary." Sherlock rubbed his temples.

John gently removed one of his hands so that he could take Sherlock's pulse. "Who's Mary?"

"The bride who seemed to think you were her groom and that I was sent to take you away."

"Huh," John said as he timed the pulse. "Not my type."

"What is your type, then?" Sherlock asked.

"I like them with a pulse," John said with a grin, "Even if yours is a little thready at the moment."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as his little brother blushed.

* * *

Greg wasn't having a good day. The star of his most popular show was on bedrest. He'd seen the dailies from the day of the incident and what Anderson's camera caught on film was breathtaking. In the middle of the hallway, where it looked like John was behaving like a lunatic, was a blurry figure clearly pointing a gun at Sherlock. Sally was threatening to quit every day, she'd come in and Greg would soothe her for another day.

Phillip Anderson was getting in fights with the editing crew, an assistant or three, and two cameramen. And those were just the incidents that had landed on Greg's desk. He had no doubt there were others, and that there would be more in the coming days. Greg had a list of complaints from other members of the crew, claiming that Phillip was involved with Sherlock and this Dr Watson fellow to hatch a clever hoax.

Something that didn't sit well with Phillip. Greg supposed it was nice that the cameraman was defending the often cantankerous star of the show, but it was causing more trouble than it was worth. Something he'd had just gotten through explaining to Phillip. Of course there was the fact that no one could prove that Sherlock or Anderson had even laid eyes on Dr Watson before that day. That helped soothe the cameraman's feathers. And the raws didn't lie, there was someone else in that hallway.

There was a knock on the door and Greg called out for them to come in as he shuffled papers around to hide what he had been looking at—blown up pictures of the "ghost."

Sherlock walked in, followed by a face he knew all too well, Dr Watson. Sherlock attempted to swan in, but Greg could tell that he was still a little unsteady on his feet. He turned to the doctor and raised an eyebrow.

John scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I tried to convince him to call you, or barring that, wait a couple more days." He looked over at Sherlock fondly. "A bit bullheaded that one."

"You're telling me," Greg agreed. He took a closer look at his star. Sherlock was lean and fair-skinned to begin with, but now he looked gaunt and pale. The man's hands shook, and when he noticed Greg watching him, promptly put them in the pockets of that massive coat of his. A coat that Sherlock could hardly bear the weight of.

"Shite," Greg muttered. He stood up and opened the door to his office. "Archie, could you get Mr Holmes a bottle of water, please?"

Archie was Greg's assistant, a clever chap, eager to learn.

Greg closed the door and forcibly put Sherlock into one of the chairs across from his desk. Sherlock huffed out a noise of protest, but Greg knew he was grateful to be sitting down. He moved around to his chair and remained standing, looking down at the papers and files that littered his desk.

"Of all the days..." Greg murmured and then shook his head. He sat down and looked Sherlock square in the eye. "What's up?"

He avoided looking at the doctor for now. Sherlock was a known entity and therefore easier to predict.

Sherlock cracked a small, fragile smile.

"Bastard," Greg said affectionately.

Perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, John watched the exchange with interest.

"I have good news and bad news," Sherlock said.

"Of course you do," Greg muttered. "Well, come on then, gimme."

"I quit."

"Fuck." Greg buried his head in his hands. That was the last straw for today. He was done. He lifted his head and then threw himself back against his chair. "You know we can't do the show without you."

John and Sherlock shared a glance. "Actually, that brings me to my good news," Sherlock explained.

"All right..." Greg said, taking the bait.

"What is the biggest problem with the show?"

"Currently? You quitting on me," Greg huffed.

John laughed. Sherlock looked up at John and smiled. Greg's eyes went wide. He'd never seen Sherlock smile like that at anyone. It was almost adoring.

"All right," Sherlock said. "A better question would be 'why did John have to volunteer?'"

Greg sighed heavily. It was one of the reasons Sally wanted to quit. "Because all the fake mystics have seen the show and have scattered like cockroaches when the light has turned on?"

Sherlock smiled at the simile. "Correct, and with no one to debunk, it's a little hard to do a show about debunking."

Greg ran his fingers over his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Archie came in with the water. He handed it to Sherlock, who murmured a thank you. Archie squeaked with pleasure before darting back out of the office. Sherlock opened the bottle and drank a good portion before turning back to Greg.

"I haven't heard any good news, Sherlock. Just you laying out all my troubles," Greg growled.

"Just wait," John said with a grin. "This is the good part."

"Instead of debunking people, debunk places," Sherlock said.

Greg blinked for a minute. "Oh." It could actually work.

"You have a small team going from place to place debunking old houses and the like of ghosts," Sherlock further explained.

"I was thinking two guys and a girl," John interrupted. "The two guys are polar opposites. One is a believer in the paranormal, the other a staunch scientist. The girl acts like mediator and is practical and open-minded. I was thinking maybe a former cop or something."

Greg grinned. "It sounds fantastic, I love it. And I'm sure the BBC will, too."

* * *

 

Sherlock stood on the pavement and looked up at the building that was the headquarters of the BBC in London.

"I think I'll miss this place," he said.

"I know," John said, taking Sherlock's hand. "But just because you're leaving 'Unmasking the Supernatural: The Science of Demystifying the Ethereal' as host doesn't mean it's the end. You'll find other things to do, maybe here, maybe not. But this place would be lost without you."

Sherlock smiled at John. "I wonder I what I'll say to Mike. He's been with me so long, and I don't really need an assistant anymore."

John snorted. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I just hate to put him out of a job. He's been so loyal to me, even when no one else was," Sherlock murmured.

John opened his mouth to argue it further when he realized. "Oh. Oh, fuck. I mean– well shit. I meant to say something when I– oh fuck. I assumed you knew." John buried his head in his hands.

"John?" Sherlock asked, worried.

John looked behind him, remembering. "When Mycroft said..." he took a deep breath. "I am an idiot. Come with me."

Sherlock followed John out to the curb, where the doctor hailed a cab. They both got in and Sherlock frowned when John gave the cabby the address. It wasn't Mike's flat, nor any of his assistant's favorite haunts.

He became concerned when they stopped at a cemetery next to an old church. John got out and told the cabby to wait for them. They wouldn't be long.

Sherlock meandered through the tombstones while John clearly searched for something. Perhaps Mike's parents ran the church and adjoining cemetery.

"I found it!" John called out to Sherlock and then waved him over. Sherlock moved to stand in front of the tombstone and suddenly the hollow pit of his stomach emptied and he felt faint.

Doctor Michael Stamford  
1977-2008  
Our Beloved Friend  
Rest in Peace

"But–" Sherlock began. He couldn't even articulate the million questions on his tongue. How could this be?

There was a warm chuckle behind them and they turned around. There in his tan overcoat and wire-rim glasses, was Mike Stamford.

"You're dead?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

Mike tilted his head to the side and smiled sadly, "Since before we met, I'm afraid. Car accident."

Sherlock shook his head, he staggered and John rushed to his side. He put Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and took the man's weight.

Sherlock let out a small sob. "The one person who understood me and cared about me, not even alive." What followed this pronouncement could only be described as a wail.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mike said, drawing close to the pair. "No, no, no. You've always had people who cared. They may have not have understood, but they cared. Mycroft, Greg, even Anderson."

Sherlock looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. "But not like you."

"You do now. Someone who understands better than a man trying to leave Purgatory. A man who loves you."

Sherlock curled up into John's side, clinging to the man Mike had just described.

"They'll probably give you Sally's old job, by the way," Mike said with a wink.

Sherlock let out a watery chuckle.

"You don't need me anymore, Sherlock," Mike insisted.

"I'll miss you," Sherlock muttered and John mouthed, "Me too."

Mike shook his head. The nearby church bells began ringing out their lovely, peaceful chimes. The ghost closed his eyes and a warm ray settled on his shoulders.

John and Sherlock gasped as bright, white wings emerged from Mike's back.

The ghost threw back his head and laughed with joy. "And here I thought getting the two of you together would surely send me to hell."

Sherlock and John shared a glance before they started laughing with the newly appointed angel.

Mike hugged them both and then put his arms around one of each of their shoulders. "Be good to each other."

John and Sherlock closed their eyes, and with the sound of wings, Mike was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... I sobbed uncontrollably when I wrote the graveyard scene the first time. I sometimes have characters do unexpected things and Sherlock certainly surprised me with his reaction to Mike's reveal. He was far more heartbroken then I could have imagined, but Mike needed his wings. 
> 
> I promise the next bit is super fluffy and a little bit sexy. ;)
> 
> Loves you all!
> 
> PS: If anyone can tell me how align Mike's tombstone to the middle of the paragraph, instead of the left side, I'd love you forever.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings. The Epilogue. I was going to put it up when I got home last night, but the lackluster response to chapter five and the fact that I got home really late from watching Dr Strange after work, I just didn't feel up to it. 
> 
> But this is it. Final part. A lot fluffy and a little sexy.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos along the way. It made me really happy inside to see all the love this story got. Thanks again to indomitable Old Ping Hai, who helped me through when I got discouraged and Sidheman, whose brain I picked ruthlessly when I got stuck. You both are amazing and I adore you to pieces.
> 
> Update: apparently ao3 glitched and people only saw chapter five today. I also wasn't getting notifications when people did comment. So hopefully people can see it now.

John and Sherlock were curled up on the sofa in their new digs on Baker Street about a month after the incident at Appledore. Mrs Hudson was happy to have them, she even gave them a deal on the rent after the favor Sherlock had done for her with the whole Moriarty affair.

"Did you ever find out how Mike was paying for things when we went out, or why no one said anything when the two of you were being driven around in your car?" John asked, snuggling closer to Sherlock.

"Hmm...?" Sherlock murmured. "Oh, yes. Apparently it was the combination of a couple things, people being idiots, and people thinking I'm an eccentric."

"The first one I get, the second one, you'll have to explain to me," John said.

"When they would 'pick up' Mike, what they were really doing is going to both flats to pick me up. They'd pull up to Mike's address, wait 15 minutes and then come to my flat. When I'd be talking to him in the car, the driver assumed I was talking to myself or on the phone with my assistant. They just chalked it up to me being crazy."

They nuzzled for a moment. "All right, I can tell that you really want to tell me how he paid for things," John muttered. "So go on, impress me."

"Mike did work for the BBC, just never as an assistant. He was actually in the set dressing department. He had started working there part time, and then when he started making more money doing that, he quit being a doctor. He has, _had_ a BBC expense account card.

"He mostly kept himself so when he died, most people weren't aware he had done so. Then when I started saying that Mike was my assistant, they assumed that's where he'd gone. Those that did know he'd passed, thought it was another Mike Stamford."

"So, he was charging the BBC for everything he was doing?"

Sherlock giggled. "Yep!"

John laughed. "Well, good on Mike."

They sat cuddling for a moment. "I hope you don't mind, but I checked into your ghosts," Sherlock remarked casually.

John chuckled. "It's something that I should have done. But when I got home and the ghosts were just everywhere, if I started on one, it would snowball into this...thing."

"I understand," Sherlock agreed. "I only checked into two. Your soldier ghost and the girl in your old flat."

"Start with the girl," John suggested.

"Katie Dodd, age twenty-one. University of London student. Apparently there is a flaw in the shower door. If you keep the hot water on too long, the metal door seals itself shut."

"Well, that would explain why she would only show up when I would shower. But I don't recall her being naked, if that's how she died," John replied.

"Mike appeared to be wearing different clothes every time I saw him. Perhaps she merely changed her appearance every time for you," Sherlock said.

"True, Bertie, my first ghost, did the same," John remarked. "So how did she die?"

"The police assumed it was due to her merely slipping while trying to open the door," he said.

"But?" John pressed.

"The angle was all wrong. To have hit her head where her wound was she would have had to fallen from a height. Now, there is a gap between the top of the door and the ceiling..."

"So she was trying to climb out and fell hitting her head?" John supposed.

"Yes, she probably survived the fall, but bleeding out on the floor of the shower, there was no one to come see if she was okay until days later. Sad, really." Sherlock sniffed. "Not that she'll be a problem for anyone else."

"Did you dispel her?" John asked concerned. "The last time you did that, you fainted and were on bedrest for days. Are you okay? Do you need to lie down?"

"Relax, John, I'm fine," Sherlock assured the anxious doctor. "Last time it was two malevolent spirits, one right after the other. This was simply sending someone home who didn't know how to do so on her own."

John kissed Sherlock on the lips. "You did good."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John back.

"I adore you," John murmured.

"I know."

"So tell me about Bertie," John said as he straddled Sherlock's hips and sat on his lap.

Sherlock grabbed John's thighs to steady him. "Are you aware you had an ancestor who fought in the Second Anglo-Afghan war?"

"My great, great grandfather, I believe," John replied. "Why?"

"Did you know he had two brothers?" Sherlock asked, gazing up at his lover.

"Two? Really?" John asked. "I mean everyone in the family knows about John and Harry. It's through great, great granduncle Harry that alcoholism runs rampant in my family. But you say there was a third Watson brother?"

"Mhmm," Sherlock murmured into John's chest. "Albert. He was older than John but younger than Harry. Can you reach the papers on the coffee table?"

John looked behind him and twisted to grab the papers Sherlock was talking about. The top page was a census taken in 1860. Henry and Violet Watson, three boys, Harry, Albert and John. The second was a letter written by the army letting Violet know that Bertie had died and that John had been wounded and was being sent home, dated July 1880. The last piece was a faded photograph with two men in the 5th Northumberland regimentals. He looked closer and he could see the smiling face of Bertie Watson, his arm slung over the shoulder of the other man. A man that looked startling like the current John Watson.

"Holy hell, he looks like me," John swore. "Or rather I look like him, but shit. That's uncanny."

Sherlock chuckled. "It can happen sometimes with families." He pulled another photo out his jacket breast pocket. He handed it to John. There holding a pipe, hair slicked back, and in Victorian style dress was a spitting image of the man John was currently sitting on. Down at the bottom in a untidy hand, read _Sherlock Holmes 1880._

"Well then," John laughed.

He set the pictures and papers aside. He slid off Sherlock's lap and pulled him to the side, dragging them both down to the sofa. "Mysteries solved."

"Mhmm," Sherlock agreed, licking into John's mouth. Kisses became heated and soon they were lost to the world.

Just the two of them against the world. Like their ancestors of old, like it was meant to be. Lost souls no more.


End file.
